A Necessary Evil
by AmazinglyMe
Summary: Parkman really could afford to keep the mobster aspect at a minimum." The beginnings of Mr. Bennett and Matt's working relationship as shown in Five Years Gone, and its evolution.


_A/N:_ Fic from my LJ that I'm finally posting here. Five Years Gone verse.

* * *

"And don't forget, tonight we will be bringing you President Nathan Petrelli's first State of The Union Address, live --"

Mr. Bennett glances up from the papers he has been reading, raises one eyebrow, and turns off the radio.

He has just gotten back to the letter, just read past, _We have some reason to believe that your daughter, Claire Bennett, possesses this particular gene_ when there is a knock on his office door. Whoever it is sounds impatient, and so he quietly slides the letter into a drawer.

The door bursts open and a man in a police uniform strides in, one hand straying toward what Bennett knows is a gun.

"Parkman."

"Stand up." Matt Parkman orders, and Bennett slowly does as he is ordered.

"We have reason to believe --"

"Who's we?" Bennett interrupts. Parkman simply keeps on talking. But then, Parkman can read minds -- maybe he knows Bennett can answer his own question.

"Hands over your head. We have reason to believe that you are developing a test for identifying the X Gene."

"Didn't they used to call it the Hero gene Parkman?"

"Yeah, well," Matt says as he begins to search Bennett and then his desk, "times have changed."

Bennett slowly leans forward toward the trash can.

"Do you have a test?" Matt asks. He says it very, very quietly from under the desk. Bennett does not stop moving toward the trash can. "Don't say yes or no. Just think it."

There is a moment of silence, and then Matt grunts. "You and your damn Japanese."

_Why do you want to know Parkman?_

Parkman's reply is so long in coming that it gives Bennett time to take the last step forward, reach into the trash can, and close his fingers around the handle of the gun he keeps there.

"Because my wife is pregnant."

Bennett slowly lets go of the gun and wonders, exactly like he's not supposed to, if he's making the right decision.

_Is someone watching this office?_

"Not on my orders," Parkman says, "but it's possible."

_We need to go somewhere we can talk._

"Just read the letter." Parkman says, and then stands. "Well Mr. Bennett, I'm sorry to have taken your time. We may be back to do another search -- it really all depends on how you conduct yourself from here on out."

Bennett frowns every so slightly. Parkman's gotten better at this. The mobster persona is perhaps slightly overdone, but the man is far less blunt then he remembers from just six months ago.

"Fair enough Officer Parkman." He says, and Parkman nods, and leaves.

Bennett pulls the letter from his drawer and scans it. Written in scrawled pencil is, "Government wants test. Test son & you'll get warning. KEEP QUIET."

Bennett raises one eyebrow.

Parkman really could afford to keep the mobster aspect at a minimum.

"Please come in ma'am." Bennett says, and opens the door to reveal a dark-haired woman carrying a baby in her arms, her eyes wide.

"Take a seat." Bennett says with his most welcoming smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Parkman."

"Thank you." Janice Parkman says, her arms tightening around her child. "How do you...?"

The question trails off, dropping into the air without the prayer of an answer.

"It's perfectly safe." Mr. Bennett says, which is really all he can assure her of. "I just take a sample of his blood, which I know he won't enjoy, and then we test it. You can stay here for a few hours while we do that if you like."

He sees a bleak future stretching out before him, some government drone reciting the words he is now and quietly pressing the button under the desk that calls security. He swallows, hard, and moves to pick up a needle.

An hour later he is sitting in the lab, waiting for results, almost more on edge than Mrs. Parkman is in his office.

"Here you are sir."

He takes the tube, glances at it and at the results that go along with it, a full two pages of formulas, explanations, conclusions, and clause upon clause declaring that "the Company" is not responsible for any damage, "the Company" will not take responsibility for the effect of this documentation, "the Company" cannot be held responsible for loss of or failure to retrieve said documentation...

And there, at the bottom of the last page, the sentence, in bold print: ** does not test positive for the Hero gene.**

He does not fill in the name.

Instead he pours the blood down the sink and puts the vial in the garbage disposal. He shreds both sheets of paper. Then he sets off to deliver the news.

"Mrs. Parkman?" Bennett asks, stepping through the door.

She looks up too quickly, her eyes wide with desperation and a hope that refuses to be stamped down, the hope that her son is not like his father, that he will not be bound to the government for the rest of his life in exchange for secrets kept and prosecutions deferred.

"I'm afraid that Matthew Parkman Jr. tests positive for the Hero gene." Mr. Bennett says very quietly. "Luckily, Matty Lyman does not. Of course, Matty Lyman has never met his father -- his parents divorced just weeks before he was born, and neither he nor his mother has _any_ contact with the father. But he lives a very happy life in Montana, near the Canadian border."

He pauses and waits for the glint of realization to appear. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens. Protest is written in the bags under her eyes, the curve of her upper lip, the angle of her eyebrow.

"Beautiful country up there." Mr. Bennett says. "Unspoiled. Practically untouched."

He hands her the folder, and smiles. "Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

He can't help but glance at Matthew (no, Matty now) as she walks out the door, clutching the folder with a new determination. That child will never remember his father.

He pushes aside the rushing sense of deja vu and gets back to work.

Mr. Bennett is filling out the latest form. It is not, of course, required that he fill it out. But it is _strongly encouraged_ and he is not stupid. The last thing he needs (the last thing any of these people who come to him, desperate and wide-eyed, need) is to be shut down.

Claire is in Nevada now, he thinks, and he cannot write to her. He cannot call her. She is in Reno, working as a waitress. She's surprisingly good at that, waitressing. He never would have expected it.

He is completing the form, writing, _in business for twenty-three years; providing services to the government for one year and ten months_ when Parkman walks in, gun in hand.

"You have those forms Bennett?" He asks.

It was occurred to him over the past few visits that perhaps Parkman's mobster persona is acquired according to governmental orders. He has never been a natural mobster. He is to confused, and he yells at all the wrong moments.

He nods in answer to Parkman's question and then thinks, _Paper for you in the envelope Parkman._

Parkman tries to hide it, but Bennett sees him swallow. If there are cameras on this office Parkman is going to give the game away.

But then, what if someone told him he had a letter from Claire?

He sees Parkman glance at him sharply and curses his own idiocy. He isn't supposed to know where Claire is. She isn't supposed to be alive.

He waits for an instant, his hand groping for the gun he keeps in his drawer, one of three that are now stashed in his office. He watches Parkman's eyes and thinks determinedly ridiculous things in Japanese, things like _the weather is nice today_ and _I wonder how much sugar costs in Pittsburgh?_ because you never know, do you?

But Parkman puts his hand out for the envelope without taking a second glance at Bennett's face. He turns and he leaves the office without so much as a goodbye. They are united in their own strange, tentative way. And if anyone is watching the connection will not seem so strange. After all according to official reports, both of their children are dead.

Mr. Bennett knows what Parkman will see when he gets into his car and tears open the envelope, searches among the official forms copied in triplicate until he finds the small, torn, half-sheet. He will see writing in red crayon, messy writing that proclaims, "Mommy says you are a very good Daddy," and then, "I wish you could visit."

Then there is a stick figure, drawn in purple and green. The figure is standing in front of a house, and there is a crooked mountain in the background. The figure is waving, if stick figures can wave, and the label beneath the picture, in the careful letters of a three-year old, says, "Hi Daddy."

"You're name isn't Joey anymore, alright son?" Bennett says, and the five year old sitting in front of him nods. "It's Chris. And your last name is Sullivan. You think you can remember all that?"

The boy nods again, and it is then that Parkman bursts through the door, gun in hand. The mother screams and her nails scrabble across her son's wrist, pulling him halfway across the room.

"Don't do this." Bennett says quietly and evenly. He stands slowly and wonders which gun is more readily accessible, the one in the waste basket or the one in the drawer?

"Don't do what? Stop you from running an illegal operation? Let this potentially dangerous kid get away and go on to do who knows what? Save people's lives?"

"Parkman." Bennett says. The panic pulsing just behind his eyes is insistent -- this boy must get away. He must survive. He must lead a normal life, he must be free to grow up and grow old. He's five years old for God's sake. This isn't happening. "All he can do is imitate sounds. This boy is a glorified mockingbird. Do you understand? He isn't a threat to anyone."

He pauses for a moment. Parkman's hand wavers.

_Would you like to know what your son can do?_

The gun drops, and Parkman slips it back into its holster, his eyes jumping to the terrified father, who is standing just in front of his son, fists clenched.

"There's obviously been some kind of mistake." Parkman says quietly. "I'm sorry folks."

It is the beginning of the most tentative, dangerous, necessary arrangement Bennett has ever been a part of. It will go on for almost five years.

Four years later Mr. Bennett feels old. His hand runs through his hair which he knows is not yet showing gray. It _feels_ gray. Sandra's voice sounds in his head, it's southern drawl ridiculously comforting, _Don't be silly honey: you're not old 'til I'm old, and that's a long time coming still._ He gives a half-smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Sandra will never be old. Not now.

No time for that, he reminds himself. Parkman is due for another visit tomorrow, and he has to get ready. He cannot help but remember the solidarity Parkman has shown for the past four years, the sympathy. They have both lost wife and child now after all.

He tears the piece of printer paper in half with calculated sloppiness.

Of course he is doing the right thing, he thinks. He must be. He's saved countless people since they began this arrangement. He's saving people. He saved Parkman's son for God's sake.

He's saving Claire. That's what counts.

His hand hovers over the crayon box; he chooses sky blue.

_Notes:_

o1. Written for the "Future Imperfect" challenge at heroesflashfic on LJ.

o2. Reviews. Gimme. :)


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